The air of the upper world had become poison forty minutes after the dreadnought broke upon the ridge.
Ren Vale could still smell it on his wool collar: scorched steam-oil, spark-charged zinc, and boiler lag. Ever since he signed the Iron City law with Marshal Ren at Cloud-Rest, the open heavens felt like a falling lead ceiling. Whenever Ren lifted his chin toward the clouds, violent dizziness seized his skull. It spun the horizon until his knees buckled.
The Marshal’s exclusion axiom was uncompromising. Ren could command the high-speed shape of stone curtains, but the open air was closed to him forever. He had to burrow.
He adjusted the oiled leather strap cutting into his chest bone and shifted the deadweight on his back.
“Ren,” Mira muttered into the hollow of his neck. Her voice was thin, coated in stone thick spit. “You’re dragging your left heel. The sole is going to peel off before we find water.”
“The sole has four iron tacks left,” Ren said. He kept his voice level despite the burning ache across his upper back muscle. “Four tacks will hold for three miles of upright descent, provided the incline doesn’t exceed thirty-five degrees. Stop talking. You’re wasting moisture.”
